Drowning
by stilessttilinski
Summary: He is in love. She is in love. And then he is gone. - - DominiqueLysanderMolly - for Lissie & Mad.
1. Chapter 1

**a/n: i need to work on my writing, so this is…yeah. ;)**

**dedicated to: **_ListenAndBelieve, _**Lissie**, **because it's her (belated) birthday, and she's a(i)my-zhieing, and a wonderful writer.**

**also for: **_limegreenrocks_, **Maddy-kins**, **because we infect people with our cold virus together. by the way, love, apologies in advance…**

**disclaimer: j.k. rowling ©**

* * *

><p><strong>Drowning<strong>

With shaking fingers, she places it carefully into the box, closes the lid with a thud, and locks away her memories.

* * *

><p>Dominique Weasley laughs, the sound rising from her chest and reverberating into the air, as Lysander Scamander tickles her mercilessly and tackles her to the ground.<p>

His girlfriend—her cousin, Molly—watches on with distaste, Jane Eyre clutched loosely in her hands.

Dominique doubles over as Lysander's fingers brush her side and glide across her stomach almost inappropriately. He falls over on her, and the pair land in the grass, smiling at each other in that way that best friends do. She can see what's in his eyes—a love for her—but Molly's almost imperceptible cough interrupts their moment and Lysander's eyes light up with something greather and more magical than his love for his best friend.

Dominique breaks away from him, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, and watches Lysander watch Molly.

Molly rolls her eyes, opens up to her page, and begins to read.

* * *

><p>She walks towards the door, white and haunting, box held tight against her stomach, the corners digging into her skin.<p>

* * *

><p>Molly and Lysander arrive on the doorstep, knocking loudly on the painted door. Dominique is inside with a cup of hot cocoa in one hand and a fashion magazine in the other, heading for the couch when she hears the sound, and promptly places her objects on the coffee table.<p>

She opens the door, surprised. "'Lo, Molly. Hey, Lysander." She grins at them. "What can I do for you two in this ungodly hour?"

Molly eyes her cousin disdainfully, who's wearing gray sweatpants and a loose-fitting t-shirt, but Lysander beams. Dominique's gaze slips downward to their interlaced fingers, and then flicks back up at their sopping faces.

"Hi, Dom, we were wondering if we could stay here for the night. See, we went to a movie and—" Dominique cuts him off.

"Say no more; stay," she ushers them both in and leaves them to make themselves at home (and dry off) as she heads back towards the couch. "You know which room."

They nod, Molly a bit curtly, and the pair traipses into the room and dump their little belongings onto the bed.

Dominique flops onto the couch, opens up the magazine to a random page, and flips through it uninterestedly as Molly and Lysander shuffle back into the living room.

"If you want anything to eat or drink, go right ahead," she directs lazily.

Molly heads into the kitchen to make tea, presumably; that's the only thing she'll drink. Lysander, however, stays in the living room, striding over to the couch that Dominique is currently occupying.

He lifts her legs, sits down and drops her legs onto his lap and Dominique doesn't even glance up, having being used to this already. He speaks.

"How've you been, Dom? We haven't seen you in a while. Since the proposal." The ring on his finger glimmers in the lamplight as if mocking her, mocking her and her inevitable love for her best friend, the one who's to be married to her cousin in two months' time.

"Yes, well." She sips from her cocoa and answers his questioning eyes dismissibely. "I've been busy."

He nods, eyes flickering briefly with want, with need, with this thing she's come to known as love—but he loves Molly more, so _stop thinking_, Dom.

Molly breezes in from the kitchen clasping two mugs, and almost stops at the sight of them. She takes a seat on the armchair and hands Lysander his cup of steaming tea, and he accepts it without a thought, gazing at her in a way Dominique wished he would gaze at her. She _knows_ he love her, Dom, the one he's familiar with— but when he sees Molly, it's happiness that reaches far beyond Dominique's bounds. It's comparing gold to silver, or an inferno to a flame, and Dominique understands how Vic must've felt when Teddy chose Lily.

Tense silence hangs in the air. Molly clears her throat.

"So, did you get the invitation?" she asks politely, although Dominique knows it's only Lysander that wanted to invite her.

"Yes." She thinks back to when she received the letter, proceeded to rip it to shreds, and throw the pieces out of the window. "It was…pretty."

Molly watches Dominique as if she is actually a threat. With his eyebrows dipping down and his mouth set in a frown, Lysander's eyes flick back and forth at the two of them. The rain patters against the walls and windows; lightning flashes for a brief moment.

They sit, the only noises being the occasional flipping of a shiny page or the sips of tea from Molly and Lysander's mugs.

"Did you come by car, then?" Dominique asks when Lysander pulls a set of keys out of his pocket and places them on the coffee table, along with a wallet and a pack of Drooble's gum.

"Uh-huh." Molly sends a sharp look over to Lysander. "We should be leaving, actually. It's fine. We can get home."

Dominique protests. "No, you can't go! It's storming outside, and besides, you aren't dry yet."

Molly mutters something under her breath, waving her wand, and the pair is suddenly dry and rain-free. She holds her palms up and out, like, _any more excuses_? and Dominique shakes her head and waves them off.

They go to collect their things, Lysander stopping to give her a one-armed hug and a sad little smile, filled with emotions he can never act on, and with a hasty goodbye they walk out the door.

Dominique stands at the doorway as the flecks of water hit her clothes, her hair, her face, but she sets her gaze firmly on the pair. He opens the door for Molly and she leans up to peck him on the lips, and then he, swinging his keys, walks around the car. He opens the door for Molly and she leans up to peck him on the lips, and then he, swinging his keys, walks around the car. He waves to Dominique; she waves back—he slams the door shut, the headlights turn on, and then the lights disappear into the black, dreary night.

With a sigh, she heads back inside to change her clothes.

* * *

><p>Slowly, she turns the doorknob and makes her way up the stairs, each step creaking and straining under her feet. The box still in her hands, her fingers dig into the cardboard, and she continues to walk.<p>

* * *

><p>Dominique falls asleep that night, restless, listening to the sounds of thunder and watching the flashes of lightning—for some reason, she'd always sort of loved storms. She loved the way the wind would feel as it lifted your hair into what looked sort of like a halo, or when the rain would drip against your skin and wash away your sins, and when the thunder was so loud you couldn't even hear your own thoughts.<p>

The way the rain would keep falling and the thunder would keep booming, and the wind would keep slashing—she liked the consistency. And when the storm was over and the sun came out, and the rainbows came out—she was more alone than ever.

* * *

><p>She reaches the top step, and carries the box toward the other miscellaneous objects.<p>

* * *

><p>Finally, she is able to fall asleep, and clenched in her hand is the pack of Drooble's gum and a rumpled picture of he&amp;her, both of which he left behind (by accident or on purpose or on purpose, she doesn't know).<p>

The sounds of the thunderstorm start to decrease as night bleeds into day, and then the sun shines through the clouds and sets its light upon everything.

She wakes up with a start, the sun's rays leaking through her window and she wishes for the safety of the thunderstorm—the reassurance.

She stands up and pulls her hair into a messy ponytail. Yawning and stretching, she lazily makes her way to the kitchen to make herself a cup of bitter coffee.

Ten minutes later, she's slouched on the couch, skimming through the _Daily Prophet_.

Something catches her eye.

* * *

><p>Letting out a shaky breath, she bends down and lowers the box to the floor.<p>

* * *

><p>She peruses the article once, twice, three times, before her hands clench the paper until it rips and her breathing turns shallow.<p>

She stares at the paper, the black ink words blurring before her and she blinks. Words swim in her gaze and she clutches the corner of the kitchen counter—it's all she can do not to collapse.

She is in denial. _It's not possible, no, it can't be true_ run through her mind, and she begins to see spots in her vision—it's like someone has just stolen her soul and a bit of her heart to go along with it.

Someone's just ripped her heart out with their bare hands and now she's bleeding, bleeding—her vision is still hazy as someone knocks on the door—she, with short breaths and fingers reaching for something to grab ahold of and rip apart, is somehow able to get to the door with her fragmented heart and broken soul. Torn pieces of the _Prophet_ are clenched tightly in her hand, eyes wide with terror and crazed with fear (and insanity), but she doesn't cry.

Dominique doesn't cry as the door opens, and a tear-stained, battered Molly Weasley (II) comes flying into her arms.

Then she drops down beside it, fingers scraping for the opening. She finds it and pries it open.

"I just came back from the—the Muggle police," Molly says shakily as a fresh round of tears begins. It's the first time in years Dominique's seen her without her sneer of indifference, but the circumstances couldn't be any worse.

She feels surprisingly numb. She opens her mouth but no words form in her throat; instead, a strangled, gargling noise rises up like bile in her throat.

Trembling, and watching Molly in front of her with tears cascading down her face, looking like they'll never end, Dominique stands there and feels her knees wobble dangerously and the metaphorical hole in her chest digs itself deeper.

There's emptiness so prominent, so painful she can't describe and her mind isn't capable of rational thought.

"We were getting married in two months," Molly spits out, sobbing, and Dominique knows she's not saying this to spite her, but because the memory of an impossible wedding—a nearly impossible happiness—is so far out of Molly's reach now. "I loved him. I _loved_ him."

Dominique wonders why she's using the past tense—doesn't she love him still?—and tremors rocking through her body, she sits down on a stool and buries her head in her hands, wishing for darkness.

* * *

><p>She gazes down at the contents of the box. Sometimes, when the pain is more prominent, she screams at him, throws her head back to the sky, and asks him why he had to leave her.<p>

Those are the Dark Days.

* * *

><p>Molly falls asleep on the couch—Dominique wonders how she is able to—and their family calls, either crying or voice cracking or saying nothing at all. The only things Dominique says are "Yes", "No", and "Bye", and when the calls are over and the memories keep coming back, regurgitating back at her—all their moments—she has to lie down for a bit and downs a glass of whiskey.<p>

The fact that he's really, truly gone doesn't really hit her.

She spends her time drinking and dulling the pain eating away at her, and molly stays with her, crying and staring at her ring longingly.

They avoid each other and the apartment is silent at all times, Dominique always locked up in her room, refusing to let a tear flow, and digging out all the things he left behind.

The days are sunny and she wonders how they can be so bright when everything is so wrong, and after a month or so, when her family starts to get a little better, she curses them and their almost acceptance.

Because she, she will never truly accept his—his _predicament_, and he'll never be forgotten, and she'll never move on—and she'll spend the rest of her life dwelling on the mistakes she made and _if I had insisted they stay this wouldn't have happened_ and just drinking herself into a stupor. She doesn't become reckless and wild like Molly does; she stays at home and refuses to take a step outside, even when her parents nag and her sister insists and her cousins beg.

Molly takes off her ring one night, approximately two weeks after the three month mark, and Dominique just stares as Molly slips the ring off, places it on the table with a clink, and heads out to a club. Twenty minutes later, though, she's back and crying again, smearing her makeup, but Dominique doesn't bother her and lets her sit there and just cry.

That night, she drinks even more to drown out the sobs.

* * *

><p>After all these years, there's still a pain in her chest, a ripping of her soul, her heart, as she picks up and old, old pack of Drooble's gum and the corner of her mouth almost twitches.<p>

* * *

><p>It's the four month mark and Molly is as wild as ever. She still cries, in the middle of the night, when she thinks Dominique can't hear her, but to Dom, it's not enough.<p>

It's pathetic, but Dominique sort of hates Molly. Molly is supposed to be in more pain. Molly is supposed to cry all day, all night, and become this lifeless, worthless human being. Molly is supposed to not be able to live with herself—to choke on her words and feel like she's suffocating, and to condemn anyone else for acceptance of his death, to never forgive herself- or him- for dying. She's supposed to be the one in constant pain, and the one that has this huge, gaping hole and the one that can't ever stop loving him.

Dominique hates Molly because _she's_ who Molly is supposed to be, minus all the tears, and why does it seem like she's the one who cares most?

She constantly blames herself, just sits there and thinks of what she shoulda-coulda-woulda done, and these thoughts poison her like the whiskey poisons her.

The sun keeps shining, and not a thundercloud dares to appear.

She rifles through the photos and old candy wrappers and guitar picks, and many other miscellaneous objects—and drills them into her mind (and heart) so she'll never, ever, ever forget, and hopes they'll leave an indelible mark on her—even though all they do is cause more agony, more sorrow.

She picks up a photograph of him with an arm around her, and an arm around Molly. She stares at the laughing trio, and this was before Molly&Lysander's get-together so Molly's smile is less strained.

"I remember that," Molly's voice comes up behind her, whispering almost inaudibly. Tears start budding in her eyes again and Dominique looks away uncomfortable.

After a couple of moments of sniffling, Molly clears her throat as quietly as she can.

"I'm…okay," she mumbles, and adds as she looks at the picture again, "I remember that. It was fun."

Dominique doesn't reply, the fact that Molly is trying should make her hope, but instead, all she feels is resentment and a need to be alone. Molly stands there another moment, eyes shining again, before shuffling to her room without another word. Dominique hears the music get turned up loud, and she knows Molly will be going out again.

She stares at the picture, scrutinizing, before promptly tearing the picture in half. One half shows Dominique and Lysander, with his arm around her, and the other shows Molly and a stray arm hanging over her shoulder.

And she almost cries with relief.

* * *

><p><strong>an: readers—if there are any—part two will come soon…ish. probably.**


	2. Chapter 2

**a/n: part two's here, yay. i really just don't know what this is; leave r-e-v-i-e-w-s, ah luffles them. yeah, that's it, on with the story.**

**disclaimer: j.k. rowling ©**

* * *

><p>Dropping the stale gum back into the box, she shivers and closes her eyes, and memorizes the contents.<p>

* * *

><p>Molly doesn't talk to her after that. Instead, she spends more time at bars and clubs than ever before, and Dominique is slightly relieved. She can look through his objects and rage and dry heave all she wants, and Molly won't be there to watch her with her bloodshot eyes.<p>

Dominique still doesn't cry. She just upchucks the food she had for breakfast, for lunch, for dinner, and yells at the objects and sinks into her bed, sunken eyes staring at the ceiling.

Death is something she's never experienced before, obviously. She's never had to worry about her family and her friends suddenly being gone; she's never had to worry about dealing with this sort of excruciating pain.

Sure, she's imagined it. Everyone has, right? Imagined what it would be like without her parents, or her brother, or her annoying-as-hell sister. Imagined the consequences, what she'd have to do, wondered how she would take action. Yeah, she's imagined it.

But not Lysander. Never Lysander. She never thought the pain would be this intense, this palpable. This…emotional. She hadn't prepared herself for this—Lysander was always forever in her mind, wasn't he?

She sets her lukewarm coffee mug on the table, the heel of her hand pressing into the edge of it, the pain making her feel the tiniest bit better.

She lifts her hand off the table, staring at the red mark on her hand.

Without thinking, she brings her other hand down onto her arm and stares as she claws at the flesh there. Her long fingernails leave red lines running this way and that as she runs the finger down her arm, pressing hard. The line looks white, stark white as she presses down, but when she let's go it's an angry, flushed red and the numbing pain feels morbidly fantastic.

Her gaze burns into her arm and leaves white lines after the red fades and the hurt dissipates into nothingness.

* * *

><p>She looks almost demented, with the dark rings circling her eyes and the pale, sunken skin and the limp, tangled ringlets. She looks at herself in the mirror and fails to see the once-vibrant girl she was.<p>

She hovers over the box, illuminated memories flashing through her mind. She rubs at her forehead warily and his young face appears mercilessly in her mind—and for the first time in years, her thoughts are golden.

* * *

><p>She's more weakened by this than anything else. She remembers a time when she used to feel invincible, immortal, like nothing could ever stop this constantly running train—but now she's just a sad girl – so, so sad – with a shattered glass heart and hell, it feels like she's going insane.<p>

She lets out a shaky breath and her fingers roam gently on her face, tugging at the loose skin, at the face that looks like it's aged a good ten years.

Molly is out tonight, just like she is every night. It's past the sixth month mark and is steadily approaching the seventh, and Dominique still hasn't cried or left the building. Instead she cooks Ramen that Louis gets for her and eats with wooden chopsticks, and sits trembling, every day.

She's fallen into routine. Every morning she will wake up to a sunny day and she will make herself a cup of bitter coffee. (She refuses to use the sugar – he used to sugar, and he only.) She'll take an hour long shower, attempting to drown herself in the droplets of crystalline water and when she fails, she will dry herself off and shuffle into the living room.

The living room is cluttered with his belongings and his paperwork, and everything in there is his, his, his. She spends every day rifling through a section, and when she gets through them all, she starts over again.

Muggle doctors diagnose her as having post-traumatic stress disorder, her brother tells her. She doesn't think so. This, what she has, is depression. As she sifts through candy wrappers and old photographs and school essays, she takes swig after swig of whiskey—it's become her new favourite drink. Her hand clenches around the neck of the bottle and doesn't let go, not once, sloshing whiskey onto old papers. She doesn't care and just lifts the bottle time and time again to her chapped lips, and feels the burning sensation of the liquor in her throat, feels the fire burning fiercer every time she drinks more.

Today is an ordinary day. She wakes up, goes through her daily routine and time passes much faster with the help of alcohol. The hour hand on the clock approaches nine PM, around the time Molly gets home to clean up a bit—and then go out some more.

Dominique's hands clench around the papers she's holding as she sits silently, waiting for her cousin's arrival. The door opens quietly and the sound of shuffling feet is heard.

And then there are whispers. Dominique hears _two_ voices, not one, but _two_, and promptly drops the papers onto her lap. She presses her palm to her mouth and shudders.

"C'mon," Molly whispers, slurring, and Dominique listens as the boots thump across the ground, "my room's right down the hall."

"Alright," a man's voice replies agreeable, sounding just as slurred as Molly does, and Dominique swears to herself – she recognises that voice.

It's Lorcan. Goddammit, it's Lorcan – and he's just as smashed as Molly is, if not more. And if Dominique doesn't stop this, there are sure to be tears of regret in the morning.

She stands up suddenly, the papers rustling and falling to the ground. Swallowing, she heads into the main hallway, where Molly and Lorcan are drunkenly making their way up the stairs.

"Molly!" Dominique calls shrilly, noticing the slight crack in her voice. Molly turns around, grinning at her cousin dazedly.

"Dommy! How ya doin'? Wanna join me and L-L-Lorcan?" she loops an arm through Lorcan's as he waves at Dominique enthusiastically. "We're gonna have fun in my room." The drunken girl smiles and winks, swaying on the spot.

"Molly, I really don't think that's a good idea..." she warns, voice growing steadily stronger.

Molly frowns at her. "Why not? Sex is _fun_. Don't be such a party pooper, Dommy!" With that, she and Lorcan charge for her door, giggling, and lock the door behind them.

A part of Dominique tells her she should just leave them alone and let them pay for the consequences, but this is _Molly_ and _Lorcan_ and if it were anyone else, she wouldn't care.

But Lysander would. She allows herself to think of his feelings, the ones who really matter, and reluctantly, she points her wand at the door, and mumbles,

"Alohamora."

Something pricks at the back of her eyes. Furiously, she thinks of something else. She_ can't,_ not now.

And there they are, sprawled on the bed, thankfully not doing anything. Instead, Molly is openly crying, and Lorcan is too, and they both shake with silent sobs. They sit there, side by side, tears leaking out of their eyes, Molly staring down at her lap as tears drip from her nose, and Lorcan, eyes closed, hand in Molly's wet one.

Dominique stands there and watches as they cry, watches as the visible pain on their faces worsen, watches as Molly whispers something along the lines of _I can't, I can't_, and then Dominique crosses the room, and pulls them into a hug.

The tears wash away her icy exterior, her unfeeling facade, and for one night, it's like she cares.

* * *

><p>She sits, kneeling, eyes pricking again.<p>

* * *

><p>"I- I don't-" Molly wakes up beside Lorcan the next morning as Dominique carries in breakfast. Molly's voice cracks. "What are you do - ing?"<p>

"Making you breakfast," says Dominique steadily, balancing the plates and utensils on her hip and other hand grasping the handle of the pan. "I mean, the bacon and toast are kind of burnt but I s'pose you could just scrape that off - and we're out of pumpkin juice so here's some orange juice instead."

Placing the plates on a stunned Molly's lap, she spoons hot food onto the two plates and busies herself, avoiding Molly's bloodshot eyes.

"Oh, and drink this," Dominique pushes a glass of suspicious-looking liquid in Molly's hands, and places one on the bedside table for Lorcan. "It's hangover potion," she explains as Molly blinks at it.

Dominique, attempting to smile, trudges out of the room and once she's out of earshot, lets out a sigh.

She's choosing to busy herself and take care of Molly and Lorcan so she doesn't have to deal with the pain herself – alone.

No, she's never particularly liked Molly, or really cared about her, and Lorcan's just Lysander's twin to her – but they're there, so she can try.

She slumps against the refrigerator, feeling the cool caress of the metal against her back as she clutches a dishrag.

"Lysander," she says finally, fingers finding their way to clutch her necklace, the one he gave her. "I wish you were here. I really, really wish you were here."

She presses the necklace to her chest, feeling her eyes flutter shut.

"I do too," Molly's weak voice brings her out of her reverie, the now-sober girl coming to sit beside her.

"Yeah," Lorcan unsticks his throat, almost crying again, "I miss him too."

And that's all they have to say – and suddenly they're spending the day in one another's presence, retelling stories and reminiscing and almost-but-not-quite laughing.

Dominique thinks they've made progress, finding her voice, and launches into a story of her own. Molly and Lorcan stare, riveted.

* * *

><p>It's an incredibly strange feeling, she muses, vision blurring slightly as she looks down at the box.<p>

* * *

><p>Within days, they've progressed to something close to friendship. Molly stops going to clubs every night, Lorcan stays over more often than not, and Dominique, Dominique leaves the pile of belongings and papers gather dust in the living room.<p>

The trio prefers to just drink cups of tea or hot cocoa and telling stories and old tales of their years at Hogwarts. It might not be entirely comfortable, but these are the people who, along with her, have been scarred the most. The rest of the family appears to have truly gotten over it, going on with their regular lives - even Uncle Rolf and Aunt Luna have gotten past the grief and denial, just accepting it - and Dominique thinks she'll /never/ be able to do that.

"Remember in Seventh Year, when you and Ly and I pranked Lorc here, and told him NEWT scores had come out and his were all P's?" Molly smiles affectionately at Lorcan, her blue-diamond eyes glittering.

Dominique grins at them, seeing Lorcan's hand cover Molly's as he shrugs sheepishly.

"I was gullible back then," he gives Molly a crooked smile and quirks an eyebrow at Dominique.

She laughs openly, short fringe brushing into her eyes. "Still are, Lorcan. Still are."

"Hey!" he protests, lips curved up in a sweet smile. "No, I'm not!"

Molly rolls her eyes, smirking as her copper red curls bounce as she giggles. "I'm sorry to inform you, Lorc, but you really are."

He opens his mouth to protest, but no words come out. They watch each other for a couple of moments amusedly, and then they all burst into laughter. And Dominique feels the pain in her chest lessen, and _his_ laugh reverberates along with theirs.

* * *

><p>She blinks.<p>

* * *

><p>One day, almost a year later, she finds Molly and Lorcan sitting together by the cherry tree outside, her legs sprawled across his lap. Molly lies down, her back against the grass, blue-diamond eyes shining and letting out an open laugh. Lorcan laughs alongside her, his back pressed into the bark of the cherry tree, fingers absentmindedly tracing shapes on the strip of flesh between her shorts and t-shirt.<p>

Dominique smiles, and knows they will be okay. Molly and Lorcan – they'll be okay, together.

She isn't too sure about herself.

* * *

><p>The single tear slides down the length of her nose and splashes onto the box with a sense of despondency.<p>

Serenely she sighs, forcing a sad smile on her face and whispering a couple of words to the wind.

* * *

><p>(She grows old, and never once considers falling out of love.)<p>

* * *

><p><strong>an: well, i finally, finally finished. thank god. i had to post something - it's July 15th.**

**the end of an era. please don't favourite without reviewing.**


End file.
